Nurture, Nature
by Anysia
Summary: Nurture v. nature: she could love him, raise him right, but could she ever erase his father's influence? Darkfic, elements of Cass/Raph.
1. Nurture

_A/N: Nurture v. nature: which one shapes us more? An experimental standalone two-shot exploring the idea in a vaguely Cass/Raph context—she could love their son, raise him right, but could she ever truly erase his father's influence? What follows are two independent answers...neither of which is particularly pleasant. Rated for elements of angst and horror.  
_

_Dedication: This one's for Kamitose, my Cass/Raph partner-in-crime.  
_

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He's beautiful, all wide silver-blue eyes, sweetly curious, soft blond hair sweeping low over his forehead and he smiles, showing gapped baby teeth as he flings his arms out for a hug and calls her "Mommy". He's beautiful, sunshine and bright innocence, sweet, high laughter as he runs and plays, and she feels warm pride spread through her chest, comforting, because it's been four years, and even through her worry, her fear, through pained, sleepless nights, he's still here, all rosy-cheeked innocence as he turns his face to the sun.

And he's "three and a HALF" and likes frogs (laughs when Mommy shrieks) and he never understands why Mommy holds him so tightly on the cloudy days and why she paces at night, why she looks fearfully to the east, to the mountains, and cries in her sleep. But she loves him, loves him so much, and she laughs and plays with him and calls him silly, teasing affection, as she wipes smudges of chocolate from his mouth and cheeks. And they're happy.

But one day, he hears Pyrrha and Patroklos laughing and talking gaily of their daddy, how he's strong and courageous and gives them sweets even when Auntie Sophie tells him not to, and he doesn't understand and tugs at Mommy's skirt with chubby hands, stares with wide, tear-filled eyes and asks why he doesn't have a daddy. And Mommy kneels down and holds him tight and cries and cries until he's telling her not to even though he's crying, too.

She puts him to bed, tucks him in, runs a hand through his hair and kisses his forehead, and she loves him but she's still crying and her throat must hurt because she's running her fingers over her neck, and he doesn't know why, but he's scared.

He lays wide-eyed in bed, pulling the covers up to his chin as the night grows longer and mommy finally stops pacing and goes to her room, and he's been so scared that he wonders why he's not when dark shadows _move_ and part and twist and there's a man there now, observing him curiously with reddened eyes, madness, evil, hellfire, and he should be scared but he's not.

He sits up and stares back, watching silently.

"What's your name?" the shadow-man asks, and his Greek is surprisingly beautiful and it _flows_ and his tone is nearly kind, and even though names have power, he's not afraid. He tells him.

The man moves slightly into the dim glow of moonlight cast through his tiny bedroom window, and he thinks he must be a king or a prince or somebody _very_ important, because he's dressed in black and gold and silver and he has a sword at his hip, glinting steel, and he even _looks_ important, high cheekbones and an arrogant smile. "And how is your mother?" he asks gently.

And he can't help it, can't help crying because mommy's been crying and she's scared and no one will tell him why. The man smooths out the covers with one gloved hand and sits beside him, and he watches as he cries and finally pats his shoulder. "Come now," he chides. "What do you hope to accomplish with all this crying, hm?"

But he loves Mommy so much, and she loves him, and it hurts that he can't make it better. The man pauses before reaching out a hand to brush a few strands of blond hair from his forehead, and when he sees pale-blue eyes he stops, stock-still, and stares. "You have my eyes," he says, a low voice, a whisper, and he doesn't understand because _his_ eyes are red and mommy calls his baby-blue, but mommy's eyes are bright, bright green and maybe he has his daddy's eyes, except he doesn't _have_ a daddy, and then he's crying again.

The man silently hands him a silk handkerchief, all delicate embroidery, and he blows his nose and tells him, and maybe Mommy's sad and scared without his daddy, because he knows he is. The man surprises him by hugging him delicately, even though the front of his fine shirt is soaked with tears, and he hears him saying that he's sorry. And he doesn't understand, _again_, and he's tired of not understanding and he's tired of crying until the man says he loves Mommy, too, and he stares up at him with wide, teary, hopeful eyes.

He loves mommy, and _he_ loves Mommy, and maybe he can help now and make her smile. The man dries his tears and pats his shoulder, and he says, "Perhaps your father could help." And his face lights up because he must _know_, and the man stares at his blue, blue eyes for a moment before telling him to get his cloak, quietly.

And that's the first time he's almost scared, when he thinks of leaving Mommy, and he wants to curl up under the covers until the man goes away, but he loves Mommy, and Mommy loves him, and he'll do anything to make her happy.

He gets his cloak, and the man helps him fasten it and calls him a good boy, and there's a crooked smile on his face, white baby teeth and trusting innocence, as the man leads him outside to a waiting carriage.

----------

Over the mountains, and he tries to be brave, even though he knows even Mommy is afraid of the mountains, and everyone speaks strangely and it's dark, very dark, and he's scared.

The man smooths his hair, comforting, as he sits silently beside him, and he doesn't understand why it feels so familiar, why his hand upon his brow feels comforting and gentle, all warm pride and affection, like Mommy, just like _Mommy_.

A thought, and he's scared to ask, but he turns baby-blue eyes to the man and asks, slowly, quietly, if he's… And he can't say it, but the man laughs deep and rich, and reaches out to ruffle his hair. "Smart boy," he says approvingly. "Just like his father." And there's a faint smile on his lips when he answers his unspoken question with a yes.

And somehow he knew, and he's happy and sad and suddenly frightened all at once.

Her name is Amy, and she's small-framed and has red, red hair and red, red eyes, and he doesn't think she likes him very much.

"He's blood," she says, and she's wary and distant until the man (Daddy, he thinks, but it's strange and unfamiliar) hugs her tightly and promises that she'll always be his little girl, and she settles, only slightly.

"Cassandra," Amy says, and he starts, just a little, because that's _Mommy's_ name, and he misses her now, misses her so much.

"She kept him from you?" Amy asks, and the man (_Daddy_, but it's still strange and he's still scared) nods and it seems fairly light, fairly easy, but his fists are clenched and his eyes are narrowed and he's _angry_, but he swears he'll take care of him now.

Amy comes and takes his hand, and he jumps because she's _cold_, and she pulls him along carelessly, taking him to his new room, and it's cold and dark and so is she (and so is he, _daddy_), and he thinks of Mommy and sunlit warmth and tries and fails not to cry.


	2. Nature

Baby's wide-eyed and gentle, carefully running his brightly-colored oils over a fresh sheet of butcher paper as he plays at Mommy's feet. Pink tongue faintly visible, poking out from the corner of his lips, eyes focused and intent until Mommy looks to him, worried, brushes floured hands on her apron and leans down to watch him draw.

Night-blackened castles, moonlight and ravens, hell-red eyes burn up at her from flat, bleached-white paper, and she looks to him, fearfully.

He doesn't speak for a moment, just runs white fingers over bloody shadows, staring into painted eyes. "I had a dream," he says quietly, intently, and Mommy looks from him to the paper and trembles.

----------

_Such a sweet boy_, everyone says at first, and they like it when he laughs, smiles, gapped baby-teeth, bright like Mommy, and the older ones remember when Mommy was little, and they call him sweetheart, baby darling, tousle his white-blond hair and pinch his cheeks.

And he hates it, hates stinging cheeks and tugged hair, but Mommy's complacent until the day he scowls and leans to bite at pinching fingers, not hard enough to draw blood, but even so there's a mark upon the woman's fingers, chain-linked teeth marks, shiny-dark against her skin, and she pulls back, shrieking, grasps her fingers and shouts _demon-child, cursed thing! _and points at Mommy, but Mommy just grits her teeth, shouts back, takes him by the hand and leads him off, and he's surprised to see that she's crying.

----------

_Bastard_.

That's what they call him, a few years later, when he's older, just a little, and he knows it's not a nice word because Mommy scolded him when he asked what it meant, but it's also way they fairly sneer it, twisted features and mocking laughter, and they push him, hard, and he lands with a thud on his backside in the dirty street.

_Everyone knows your mother's a whore_, they say. _Your father was probably just some gutless john of hers who took off when he found out about you. _

They're older boys, and he's so little next to them, quiet and gentle, and for that he's their favorite victim. It doesn't help that they listen so intently to what their parents say, that his mother's just a low-class slut who doesn't even know the father of her bastard child, just stares, vacantly, into the middle distance when she's asked, and even her own parents have disowned her for her harlotry. Always a strange one anyway, the Alexandra girl—rushing out at on strange "quests" for months at a time, just like that sister of hers, but at least the elder girl had made good, married well and borne her husband two children.

Not this one, who'd returned from the eastern mountains one frigid early November morning, dazed, disoriented, just barely swollen with child and falling, desperately sobbing, into her sister's arms.

_Why don't you fight back? _one boy jeers now, back to the present, slings mud in his face, in his eyes, stinging, pulls back one foot and kicks him, hard, and he cries out, doubles over.

Mommy's always told him not to fight back, not to strike, just come and find her and she'll make it better (doesn't answer when he asks why, just strokes his hair, stares into his eyes for a too-long moment before making him promise).

But Mommy's far away, at the bakery, and he could run but his legs are as little as the rest of him, and he'll never make it in time…

Another boy spits, and there's cold saliva wet against his cheek as they shout _bastard! Son of a whore! _There's a bruise forming upon his shin, purple-black.

He knows he should find Mommy, call for help. Because he's scared, and it hurts, and he's all alone…but now, as he digs his fingers into the dirt and comes shakily to his feet, raises his eyes, glinting, glinting in the orange-red light of a dying sunset, he realizes he's _angry_. And it burns within him, fiery and overwhelming, voices whispering, dark and feral, tempting, violent, _we won't stand for this, will we? _and his vision turns to red and he _moves_.

----------

It's hours later, the first light of dawn slanting over baby cheeks, rosy-red, and Mommy finally comes for him, breaking free from the two men restraining her, shouting curses at her, angry, hateful, and she stumbles slightly, crying when she sees him, biting one knuckle against the sobs, _I never wanted you to be like him, my gods, never like __**him**_…

And everybody's crying, shouting, screaming, at Mommy, at him, and he's sorry he made Mommy cry, truly he is, but it's not _his_ fault—they never should have made fun of him, should have known better, and it's not his fault he got so mad, it's not his fault at all. But Mommy's crying and scared as she turns horribly widened eyes to him where he stands, isolated, a careful distance from the fearful crowd, cold and blood-drenched (it's not his blood, anyway), shouts and horrified whispers echoing in his ears, _demon-child, __**monster**__…_

And he frowns, just a little, not at them because he doesn't care, not really, but because he doesn't understand why Mommy's not _proud _of him, because he is, terribly proud, because he stood up for himself, and he's strong and brave and just knows that if he _did _have a daddy, he'd be proud, too, and the thick coat of dried blood around his mouth tightens and flakes as he smiles helpfully, easily, flashing bloodstained teeth, until Mommy finally looks away, sobbing silently.

----------

The first time Daddy comes, he doesn't have to ask—he knows it's him, because he has his smile and his hair and his _face_, noble planes and arches, pride and strength, and he understands what Mommy doesn't (he's proud when he tells him, oh yes, laughs and ruffles his hair affectionately, and he likes it when he does it).

And he's happy, brilliantly so, and he doesn't understand why Mommy's not, why she gasps, harsh, sudden when they walk through the door, and he's smiling and holding Daddy's hand even though he's not scared, not at all, and Mommy reaches quickly for her sword until Daddy moves to catch her wrists, holds her fast, tight against him.

"He's mine," he says, eyes burning into Mommy's until she shakes, but she's still strong and shouts _I won't let you take him_.

"Oh, but _Cassandra_," he says, falsely sweet as he kisses her with soft, bloodstained lips and she closes her eyes, helpless, struggles weakly in his embrace, against his grasp, "can't you see that I already _have_?"

And his eyes are bloody red, just like his daddy's, and he's so proud, of himself, of his daddy, and he smiles, bright, white, shining teeth, so _happy_, as Mommy finally goes limp in Daddy's arms, her eyes burning, throat bloodied, and together they're a family at last.


End file.
